


Take Whatever Can Be Won

by vials



Category: Shades of Magic - V. E. Schwab
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Pre-Canon, honestly it's about Athos and Holland you do the math
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-12 20:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21482455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vials/pseuds/vials
Summary: There was a time before Holland was so stoic. When he still used to scream.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 39





	Take Whatever Can Be Won

The Danes had explored the castle thoroughly in the days and weeks after they had seized power, finding old rooms and hallways that even Holland hadn’t known were there. They had expressed some surprise that Holland didn’t know the ins and outs of the castle, and even more so at the fact that he didn’t particularly care, but the truth was that most of the castle was bordering on uninhabitable. In one hallway, Athos had found part of the roof had fallen in; in what had once been some kind of semi-formal reception room, the floor was oddly unstable beneath one’s feet, threatening to collapse into whatever was beneath it. Sometimes the twins would explore together, and other times they would wander separately; on a few unpleasant occasions they had dragged Holland around with them, pointing things out to him like they had been the ones with several years of history in the place. They would often ask Holland if he was aware of this or that room, or if he knew what it might have been used for, happy to give him their own conversational suggestions when he didn’t know, as though their dynamics were anything but what they were.

It was always better when Holland didn’t know, because then he would only have to put up with more of their surprise and thinly veiled comments about how if he had perhaps been more vigilant, he wouldn’t be in his current situation. Holland much preferred those barbed implications than the questions that would follow when he _did_ recognise a place, because then Astrid’s face would light up and Athos would smile that terrible little smile of his, and Holland would know what was coming. They would want to know everything about the room, what it was used for, what had happened there – who Holland had been with, what they had talked about, if Holland missed him, how much? Every single piece of information they got out of him felt like another part of himself given up; he had told himself, after they had first captured him, that he would never tell them anything about Vor. That Vor would remain his and his alone. Now it all seemed ridiculously naïve, but how could he have known? Generally the rule in Makt was that _Antari_ would be killed, harvested for whatever magic their blood or flesh or bones might be able to provide. Holland had assumed no other fate, and even if he had, how could he have predicted this?

Finally the twins’ endless explorations came to an end, and gradually over the months they seemed to settle into whatever rooms they had claimed for their own. There was no rhyme or reason to it, with the exception that they both stayed in what had always traditionally been the royal quarters – probably because it was the easiest part of the castle to defend rather than any nod to said traditions. Outside of that, Holland could find them wherever they decided to be that day, sometimes sticking close to the throne room and its surrounding reception rooms, other times being found way out in one of the far wings. Holland had no idea why anybody would want to spend any amount of time out there, surrounded by walls that were often crumbling and a stark emptiness that was unnerving even for the mostly barren castle, but he was quickly realising that there was nothing about the twins he could predict. It seemed to Holland that they simply wished to be as unpleasant as possible, both in their attitudes and with regards to the rooms they settled themselves in.

The problem was that there was rarely anything to look at. Even now, coming into the latest room that Athos had taken as what Holland supposed was some kind of study, there was precious little in the way of distraction. Any furniture in the room was sparse, with large gasps between everything, and it had almost all been harvested from other parts of the castle; Holland spotted, with an unpleasant jolt in his chest, a bookshelf that had once sat beside Vor’s bed, though of course all the old king’s books were gone now. The walls were blank, pale cracked stone; there were windows, but all that could be seen out of them was the sky, almost as pale as the walls themselves. Athos himself was pale, too – all white clothing and white-blonde hair and skin so fair it was almost transparent, and for some inexplicable reason Holland felt a rush of frustration pass through him. Had this place always been so _bland_? He didn’t remember anything looking so hopeless before. 

“Stay there,” Athos said to him, not looking up, and Holland’s feet dragged him to a stop. Athos took his time finishing whatever it was he was looking at, and Holland stared evenly at the top of the man’s head, hating how he could be so confident; hating how he didn’t feel the need to look up. There had been a time where Holland was the most dangerous person in the world, and now Athos could sit there, knowing how Holland despised him, knowing how much Holland wanted him dead, and knowing that he was entirely safe. The thought was sickening, but Holland swallowed the anger down. “How do you find the new room?”

“It looks just like all your previous ones,” Holland answered.

“Nothing jumps out at you?” Athos asked conversationally, finally looking up at him. “I did see you glance at the bookshelf when you came in.”

_You know damn well why_, Holland thought, but he kept the thought from passing across his face. 

“It merely surprised me that you read,” he said, but Athos only laughed. 

“How can a man rule if he doesn’t read?” Athos asked. “Come now, Holland. Be honest. What were you really thinking?” 

It had surprised Holland, the first time that Athos had commanded him to be honest and he had obeyed. He had thought that just his body was bound to Athos, and therefore only physical orders would translate; it turned out that it was much more nuanced than that. Whatever magic Athos had used on him, it was powerful and unfortunately perfected – it wasn’t just his _body_ that Athos now owned, but rather his _life_. Only Holland’s magic remained separate, because magic was a chaotic, untamed force, but while the vessel it used to contain itself was bound, such specifics didn’t make a difference. 

“I was thinking that I recognised it,” Holland snapped, immediately hating himself for it when he saw the amusement appear on Athos’s face; the delight that always followed when Athos realised he had angered Holland, maybe even upset him. Holland had never met a man who enjoyed being hated more. 

“You recognised it?” Athos prompted, even as the look in his eye told Holland he knew exactly where it was from. 

“Yes,” Holland said. His heart was hammering against his chest like it wanted to get out; he knew he was about to regret what he was going to say, but he couldn’t stop himself. Athos wasn’t immune to anger of his own, and while Holland would always pay for putting it there, it was all he had. It was the only display of autonomy he had left. Athos would always hurt him, but Holland could still sometimes choose when he did so. “It used to belong to my king.”

The effect was instantaneous, and in that moment Holland told himself it was worth it; that no matter what happened to him next, it would remain worth it. Athos stared at him for a long moment, his eyes slightly narrowed, and Holland could see the man struggling; see him fighting to keep some control over his frustration, to not let his _Antari_ know just how much such comments rattled him. Holland was surprised that Athos hadn’t directly ordered him not to say such things, but he knew that Athos would see that as a defeat; as perhaps even _petty_, beneath him. Within seconds Athos had won the fight for control over himself, but even though his tone remained amused, Holland could see in his eyes that he was angry – that he was relishing the opportunity to make Holland pay.

“Holland,” said Athos, sighing. “I really do wish you would pay attention to what I tell you. I thought you were much smarter than this.”

Holland said nothing, watching him in silence. 

“I suppose things are still strange for you,” he continued, almost sympathetically. “Such a period of upheaval, and we all know how _close_ you were to the previous king. But really, this is starting to become ridiculous. How long are you going to carry on for?” 

“Do you sincerely think,” Holland said, his voice barely level, “that you will _ever_ be my king?”

There was a brief pause. Holland hadn’t meant to say it; he hadn’t been able to help himself. He sensed that he had made a terrible mistake – the anger in Athos’s eyes had turned to a malicious kind of glee, and Holland could only guess at what ideas he might have given the man, what opportunities Athos might have spotted.

“But I _am_ your king, Holland,” Athos said quietly. He stood up, still taking his time, and Holland had no choice but to stand where he was as Athos came closer to him, regarding him like he was another piece of furniture; as though he were simply trying to work out where to place him. “In fact, I would say I was more than that. I am your everything. You _belong_ to me. You are nothing more than an extension of my wishes; my desires.” He smiled, reaching up and tracing a finger down the line of Holland’s jaw. Holland couldn’t help himself; he flinched, instinctively moving away from the man’s touch, repulsed. “Ah-ah, Holland. So rude,” Athos said, laughing. “I suppose I shouldn’t encourage it, should I? But I _do_ love it when you flinch.” 

Holland let out a slow breath through his nose, trying to hold himself still as Athos continued to run his finger along his jaw, down to his throat. He could feel the path Athos’s finger had taken, the skin crawling. How was it that even the lightest touch from Athos could make him feel this disgusting? It was almost better when Athos was outrightly violent with him – the pain was so much better than whatever this was. Athos could be so infuriatingly gentle sometimes, forgoing violence in favour of having Holland sit at his feet, his head in his lap as Athos ran his fingers through Holland’s hair; Holland would find himself wishing for the man to simply hurt him, but his skin would crawl just the same afterwards. The only advantage would be that Holland wouldn’t have to feel it in the moment; wouldn’t have to feel it in Athos’s presence.

“Stay where you are,” Athos said pleasantly, and then he hit him, swinging his closed fist right into Holland’s exposed throat. The force of it would have knocked him backwards if not for Athos’s command; Holland’s knees locked into place, holding him still. There was a heavy ring on one of Athos’s fingers, and Holland felt it bite into his skin, the impact hitting him a moment later and cutting off his breath in a sharp wheeze. For several long moments he couldn’t get any air, feeling as though there were something heavy wrapped around his throat, and when he finally managed to pull in a breath it was shaky and too desperate, as though he had been starved of air for much longer that he had. He could feel a warm trickle of blood running down his throat, the ring’s sharp edges having cut through his skin, and as Athos reached up and cupped the back of Holland’s head, his fingers tangling in his hair and holding him in place, Holland know what he was going to do. He tried to pull away, but he was unable to step back; Athos flashed him a horrible smile and then leaned forward, pressing his mouth against the small wound, his tongue running over the cut. 

Holland went rigid, closing his eyes. He didn’t breathe until Athos had stepped back, and then he drew in a long breath, still with some difficulty. His throat felt cold where Athos’s mouth had left it.

“Look at me,” Athos said, and Holland’s eyes opened, fixing themselves on Athos’s. The man’s lips were stained red. “I know you only say such things to annoy me, Holland. I’ll admit that sometimes they do. But let’s think about it logically for a moment, shall we? It doesn’t make a difference, if you wish to cling to the past in an attempt to protect yourself from the present. It is impossible for you to do so. It changes nothing.” Athos smiled, not unlike how somebody might smile at a child they believed might be being deliberately dense – an indulgent thing, but filled with threat. “I can assure you that I do not care how many times I have to illustrate this point to you.”

His hand moved from the back of Holland’s head, resting against his cheek, and Holland found himself bracing for a slap; a punch. None came. 

“Kneel,” Athos said abruptly, moving his hand away.

Holland dropped to his knees, despising himself as he did so, some part of him still struggling to resist even as his body brushed over the desire. 

“Straighten your back,” Athos said, some of his impatience beginning to show through – a sure sign that violence was inevitable; that the anticipation was growing to be too much for him. “Chin up. _Look_ at me.”

Holland did so, meeting Athos’s eyes as the other man looked down at him. Athos regarded him for a long moment, and Holland wondered if the man planned out his violence, or if he simply did whatever struck his fancy. Most of the time, during moments like these, Holland thought that Athos just liked seeing him in such a position.

“Don’t move,” Athos said quietly, and then he slammed his fist into Holland’s jaw.

The punch hit him in a downward direction, and his body obeyed the order, refusing to move with it. Athos’s ring took the brunt of the impact, shielding Athos from injury but slicing Holland’s face open from mid-cheek to jawline. Holland’s breath stuttered and he let out a small grunt of pain, a dull ache already forming at the base of his skull. Athos didn’t hesitate before he hit him again, this time across the nose, breaking it easily; and then again, in the ear, tearing it enough that Holland could feel it rested wrong against his head, as though part of it had been pulled away. His head span, black spots flickering across his vision, and as for the following blows he wasn’t entirely sure where they were hitting him. He didn’t even initially realise when Athos had _stopped_; he knelt there, breathing heavily through his mouth, his nose dripping blood onto the pale stone floor, vibrant and red and almost painful to look at. Blood dripped from his mouth, too; his ear, the gashes on his face, and Holland could hear a sharp ringing inside his head. 

Athos said something to him – Holland heard the distant murmur of his voice – but he couldn’t hear what it was. The magic binding him understood, though; Holland stumbled to his feet, his breaths still heaving, the blood dripping incessantly. Athos reached up and roughly wiped his hand across Holland’s cheek, the pale skin coming away bright with blood; Holland watched with unfocused eyes as Athos raised his hand to his mouth, licking the blood from his fingers.

“You look so good when you bleed,” Athos said, sighing almost contentedly. “What a blessing it is, that _Antari_ are so difficult to kill. And that you can lose so much _blood_, too. Tell me, Holland – how much do you think you could lose before you died?”

“I don’t know,” Holland said, his voice thick. His throat tasted of blood, thick with it from his nose, and he swallowed. The heavy band constricted around his throat again, the dull ache sharpening, and he fought the urge to cough. 

“Remind me to experiment further sometime,” Athos said, and Holland hated him for it; hated him because he knew he would, that it constituted an order and at some point Holland would be the one to remind him; Holland would be the one to bring about his own suffering. “But I don’t think I want that right now. No, what I want is to see you squirm. Take out your knife.”

Holland did so, removing it from underneath his cloak. It was another mark of humiliation that he was allowed to keep it, he supposed – the final piece of proof that the Danes had nothing to fear from him. He held it out to Athos, anticipating more of the same, but it was a mistake. He should know by now that he could never anticipate Athos. 

“No, no,” Athos said, almost sweetly. He reached out and pushed the knife back towards Holland. “You get to keep it this time. Press the tip against your ribs. No, on the side, just here.”

Athos tapped the place; Holland obeyed. He could feel the tip digging in, just threatening to pierce through clothing and the skin underneath it. 

“Push the knife between your ribs,” Athos said, his eyes glinting slightly as he watched Holland’s body already beginning to obey. “All the way to the hilt. _Slowly_.”

“I can’t,” Holland said automatically, even as the knife broke through skin. 

“You can,” Athos said, his eyes fixed on the knife. “You _will_.”

Holland did. The knife moved unbearably slowly, despite his efforts to hurry it up, to get it over with. He felt the blade pierce through his skin, slip between his ribs, cutting through muscle. The pain was sharp at first and then sickening, spreading from the knife through his chest, up into his shoulders, his arms, through to his back. Holland could barely find the strength to keep pushing the knife in, but of course he couldn’t stop; wouldn’t be capable of stopping. His breaths grew shorter, more desperate, the room pitching around him; he could hear short whimpers of pain leaving him now, the urge to scream building, getting ever closer to the surface. 

_To the hilt_, he told himself. _There’s an end to this_.

The knife pierced his lung. Holland let out a strange gasp, the entire left side of his chest feeling suddenly heavy; useless. The pain briefly held itself steady, and then exploded like liquid fire. He screamed then, a short, breathless thing that soon collapsed into helpless wheezing, and Athos smiled, reaching out and closing his hand over Holland’s, gripping the knife. He pushed it in the rest of the way, the movement sharp and sudden, and Holland stumbled.

“Do _not_ fall,” Athos snapped, and Holland’s body stilled, his knees locking into place once again. Athos’s expression softened. “Good. Look at me. There’s so much pain in that look, Holland, but there’s something else, too. You’re so _angry_. I think that’s delightful. I’m going to miss it, when I finally break you.”

Holland let out a soft moan of pain, and only hated himself more. 

“Music to my ears,” Athos sighed, and then he grabbed Holland by the front of his clothing, pulling him to the desk, dragging him with him as he returned to his seat. “Sit.”

Holland did so, collapsing the last bit of the way. He landed upright, unable to do otherwise, and Athos took his seat beside him, pulling Holland’s head into his lap. 

“Do not touch the knife,” Athos said, almost as a lazy afterthought. “But _do_ feel free to continue whimpering.”

Holland could feel the knife moving in his chest as he struggled for breath, each tiny tremor of the blade sending new agony radiating through him. Athos kept one hand in his hair, the other moving over the desk, gathering papers and shuffling through them; no doubt it would be hours before he grew bored again – hours until Holland was free of this. Would it be any better? Holland knew it wouldn’t be. The end of one type of torment was simply the beginning of another with Athos. But the pain made him forget that now; maddening, it infected all his logic, ripped away what he knew. He was simply a body trying to escape from it, willing to do perhaps anything to bring it to an end. Holland suddenly coughed, blood splattering Athos’s trousers as he did so; Athos paused, looked at him, and then gave a low laugh. 

“Oh, _beautiful_,” he said, running his fingers lightly through Holland’s hair, nails just barely scratching the scalp. “I got so unbelievably lucky with you, Holland.”

Holland groaned, the pain rising with the cough, the floor tilting under him. Athos laughed again, delighted, and Holland forced his rapid breathing to slow; forced himself to breath in slowly through his mouth, hold it, let it out soundlessly. 

_I will give you nothing_, he thought, the words shockingly clear in his head, biting through the haze. _You will never get anything from me again_.

He wasn’t foolish enough to think he could manage such a thing quickly. It would take time to learn to roll with the pain; to lock his reactions down somewhere so deep that even Athos couldn’t pry them out. There would be more of this to come – more humiliation, every gasp or scream another betrayal against himself – but one day there would be nothing. One day Athos would hurt him, and Holland would not flinch. 

He managed to breathe without a whimper. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.


End file.
